


Anemoia

by Nanimok



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 23:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: noun.nostalgia for a time you've never known.Saying that Jason woke up in the future is one way to look at it.





	Anemoia

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows for the title of the fic. 
> 
> This work has been translated into chinese by the amazing GLORIAW! Click [here](http://alanscott.lofter.com/post/169f7e_12931b46) to read and please send [GLORIAW](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GLORIAW) all the love!
> 
> There's fanart for this fic [here](https://khachalala.tumblr.com/post/176343317972/jason-notices-how-tims-body-twitches-whenever-he) by khachalala on tumblr! Thank you so much khachalala!
> 
> Written for JayTim Week AUs & Tropes - Day 6: Bed Sharing

Jason wakes to everyone crowding him on a hospital bed, their tired faces stretching into a relieved smile as Jason blinks the weariness away. Even Damian has something resembling gratitude, and really, that’s the first sign something’s deeply wrong—as a rule, Damian only shows gratitude towards Jason when he’s in pain or dying.

On that note, is he dying?

“No, you’re not dying, Jason,” Tim says, as he hands Jason a cup of water. “Yes, you did say it out loud. You were hit on the head with a spell and it knocked you out cold. You’ve been out of it for three days.”

“Three days,” Jason croaks.

That explains his dry throat, his IV, and why his body feels like he ran to Metropolis and back. His head feels light and fuzzy. His parched throat sings as he gulps the water down.

What it doesn’t explain? Why Tim smiles the brightest in the room. Why he sits beside the bed and slips a hand into Jason’s like he’s done it a hundred times before. Tim squeezes, and callouses scratches his skin as Tim rubs small circles with his thumb.

The second sign that something is deeply wrong.

Tim notices how Jason stares at him, and his eyebrows furrow. “Something wrong, Jason?” he asks.

“Replacement,” Jason greets, tone neutral.

The temperature in the room drops into the negative degrees. Tim’s smile drops completely.

Beside him, Bruce frowns. “Jason,” he says. “What was the last thing you remembered?”

That’s a good question. What _was_ the last thing he remembered?

“Uhm,” Jason hesitates. “I had curry for dinner, and I went to bed. Had an incident with Black Mask earlier the day, and I felt dead tired. The Gotham Griffins won the championships, which is pretty awesome. Always did love a good underdog story—”

Steph and Cass exchange worried glances. Damian’s scowl grows deeper. Barbara rolls herself closer and clamps one hand on Tim’s shoulder. Dick looks away from them all, and Alfred seems to have acquired ten extra lines while Jason wasn’t looking.

Tim closes his eyes, breathes in one long, shaky breath, before slipping his hands out of Jason’s.

The silence that falls is broken only by the period beeping of the machine he’s hooked to.

A room full of people who defies death regularly, and no one wants to be the one that breaks this silent, supposedly obvious, message to Jason.

“The last time _Gotham Griffins_ won the championships was five years ago,” Tim says. “These past couple of years it been a struggle between the _Knights_ and the _Rogues._ Jason, we’ve—it’s—”

Tim breaks off, and his chest shakes the next time he tries to take a breath.

“It’s been five years,” Dick says, for Tim, ripping his gaze away from the window. “Do you remember anything else? Anything at all?”

His breath whooshes out of him. The world shifts, tilts on its axis, and his ears ring. Jason lies back on his pillows.

“Jason?” Bruce urges.

“No,” Jason says, swallowing. "No, I can't."

_Five years—_

“We’ll need to update you, I guess,” Dick continues, always the leader. Always so mission-orientated. “What do you say, little wing?" he asks, gently. "Feeling up to it?”

Jason scans the faces around the room, and yes, they’ve all aged. His eyes land on the hand Tim was holding before looking back up.

Tim won’t meet his eyes, clenching his hands into fists on his lap.

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Alright. Where do we start?”

 

* * *

 

A brief look into Jason’s mind and J’onn says that Jason’s memory will come trickling back with time. The other option is for J’onn to draw Jason in and help him unlock it. The latter option takes training, which also takes time. Either way, they have to wait.

So life goes on, and Jason tries to relearn himself. 

After two days in, Jason thinks he’s doing well with adjusting to the future, but he knows that’s a complete lie.

He’s having a lot of trouble trying to swallow everything his family tells him. He sees their hopeful faces and it’s hard not to seethe from past grievances. Resentment churns in him—the word ‘family’ sticks iffy to his throat—and every time he tries to beat it into submission, it swells and hardens like stone.

And Jason hates it. He hates the way his family flinches at Jason’s instinctual scowls. He hates their crestfallen expressions, and he hates how it takes seconds for Jason to realise how their jabs aren’t really jabs at all, and more of a joke. A long running joke delivered with a fondness Jason doesn’t recognise.

Most of all, he hates the distance that falls between them when they realise that he’s not _their_ Jason.

He must have worked through his resentment in the past somehow, because of the way they are now. They’re closer than Jason can ever remember being. Always joking around, always keeping in touch, always annoying each other like family who like each other do.  

On the topic of family—

“How long has Steph and Cass been dating?” Jason asks, as he hands Tim a plate of fried noodles.

J’onn says that routine helps with jogging his memory. That’s why Jason cooks dinner, because that’s what he usually does according to Tim, using kitchenware that Jason doesn’t remember buying and in a kitchen that Jason doesn’t remember owning.

But he does. Own the kitchen, that is. This was originally Tim’s apartment, but Jason moved in three years ago, and Tim had the kitchen reworked as a birthday present to Jason. Pictures, a calendar, various post-it notes litter the fridge, and oven mitts with Red Hood’s mask on it is slung over the oven handle.

There’s a small, framed cloth hanging beside the kitchen clock. It has the words ‘ _Jason’s Domain’_ embroidered on it, in a style that Jason recognises as Alfred’s handiwork.

Every time Jason looks at the elevated cutting board, something in him twinges.

Tim thanks him as he grabs him plate. “You noticed that, huh?” Tim asks, amused. “I thought they were going to try be subtle about it and break it to you gently.”

“Tim,” Jason says. “There’s nothing subtle about sucking face.”

Tim laughs. “You got me there. Do they know that you know?”

“No,” Jason says. “It’s funny to watch them toe around it, though.”

Jason slurps up one mouthful with his chopstick and pauses when Tim stares at him.

He raises one eyebrow. “Something wrong?” Jason asks.

“No,” Tim says, shaking out of his stupor. “It’s just that you usually put a crazy amount of chilli with your noodles.”

Huh. That’s new. Jason eyes the bottle of chilli on their table, and he mentally shudders at the redness and the cartoon fires decorating it. He thought it was Tim’s since last time he checked, his spice tolerance was borderline pitiful.

Then again, his memories are five years overdue.

Tim must have come to the same realisation. He deflates slightly, and they slide into silence as they eat their noodles.

“So,” Jason says, desperate for a change of subject. “How long have Dick and I _not_ been fighting?”

Tim throws a grateful smile at him. “That depends,” he says. “It’s really a case by case situation. You both disagree on the _weirdest_ things.”

The rest of the dinner goes the same way, with Jason asking Tim questions and Tim doing his best to answer him, before telling the story behind the answer.

Jason doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tim this animated. He must, of course. Tim’s so vibrant and vivid around him.

Pieces of his life are scattered around their house. Later that night, while Tim sleeps on the couch, Jason scrolls phone and tries to begin putting them together.

When, exactly, did he stop hating _Replacement_ and started taking pictures of _Tim_ while he’s bleary with sleep? An album is dedicated to this singular feat, and a chuckle slips out of him as he swipes across a picture of Tim sleeping on a tree branch.

His phone screen is a picture of him and people he doesn’t recognise. Artemis and Bizzaro, Tim would tell him later on, and apparently they go on intergalactic adventures together when he’s not in Gotham. That sounds great, honestly. Jason’s stoked that he has friends other than Roy and Kori.

He remembers taking a peek of Tim’s phone and his screen is a picture of Jason nuzzling a cat. If Jason rolls to the other side of the bed, he can smell a scent that’s not his, but the way it makes warmth curl in his belly means it must be Tim’s. If Jason opens their closet, he can see designated closet spaces and clothes that definitely couldn’t fit him slipping in between clothes that can.

There’s so many reminder of how Tim and Jason used to be that it hurts to glance at any corner of their house.

The next day, Tim offers Jason the keys to Redbird. He’s surprised when Jason doesn’t take it and stares at him.

He does, eventually, because Jason’s always been a fool for shiny, fast cars. Tim leads him to their _shared_ garage without question and Jason follows.

“Since when did you let me drive Redbird?” Jason asks.

Tim chews on his bottom lip and looks away. “Two months after we started dating.”

“Oh,” Jason says, feeling twice his size. “How long ago was that?”

Tim doesn’t answer for a while. “Four years ago,” he says.

Tim’s bottom lip wobbled when he replied. Jason stops himself from focusing on it. Instead, he whistles when his eyes land on Redbird and start raining compliments at her.

“Only two months?” Jason asks as he slides into the driver seat. “That’s pretty weak, Tim. Expected you to kick my ass away from my car for much longer than that.”

“You’re pretty persuasive when you want to be,” Tim says, before muttering in a quieter voice, “I’ve found that it gets pretty hard to say ‘no’ to you.”

Tim leans forward and music plays in the car before Jason can say anything more. That’s end of the conversation, Jason guesses. He focuses on driving them to the supermarket, leaving their house behind. Leaving the constant reminder that Tim and Jason, entangled with each other, are building a life together.

Too many things have happened in five years and Jason can’t remember a single thing.

Even when he can’t remember, he’s still hurting others.

 

* * *

 

His body recalls things, sometimes, and it directs him before his mind catches up.

When restlessness crawls up his limbs, his body starts walking to the gym before Jason realises that he’s in the right direction. He looks for his running shoes and his sweatpants before it clicks in his mind that he doesn’t know if he runs in the morning. Out of the selection on their shelf, Jason brew green tea for Tim after work because it’s Tim’s favourite. Jason doesn’t know _how_ he knows that, but he knows it.

Tim does it too, although he hides it better.

Jason notices how Tim’s body twitches whenever he supresses the urge to reach for Jason. Coming home from after work, tired, he resists slipping into Jason’s arms, and Jason notices from stiff way he stands at the end of the couch as Jason reads. His dry humour bleeds into the quips he throws at Jason, and his face falls when Jason is too surprised to throw a quip back. His laughs are free. His body language is open. He fights Jason’s resentment with a gentle, but firm kind of patience that strips Jason bare.

The Tim from five years ago would never dare leave himself vulnerable in front of Jason. This Tim doesn’t blink before doing so.

“I thought I was the one with the anger issues,” Jason says, as opens their first aid kit. “Bad day?”

Seated across from him, a corner of Tim’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Bad _year_.”

“Hope there’s something left of the punching bag after you finished with it,” Jason says. “Poor guy looked like a truck ran over it.”

Jason had actually watched Tim while he was in the gym. This morning, he opened up his phone to a picture of Roy, Kori and Lian with the words ‘ _Get better, uncle Jason!’_ written across it. Roy and Kori are dazzling. They looked healthier and happier than Jason remembers them being.

Lian looked so _big_ , and Jason couldn’t recall a single moment of watching her _get_ big or calling him 'Uncle Jason.'

He felt like punching something.

So he headed to the gym and found Tim there, hitting the punching bag in a wild and unrestrained frenzy that Jason has never seen before. It was like—well, it was like Tim was him and the punching bag was the Joker.

Tim shrugs, and says nothing more. Jason rubs ointment into Tim’s raw knuckles, and he takes his time about it. They both know that Tim could do it himself, but Jason does it because he wants to.

“You know it’s not your fault,” Tim says, out of the blue.

Jason blinks. “What?”

“It’s not your fault that you can’t remember,” Tim says. “It’s not your fault that it’s a struggle, sometimes, to deal with the memory loss. You’re never a burden, Jason, with or without your memories.”

His hands pauses. “Oh.”

Jason has no idea what to say, but Tim’s words pierces straight to the heart of his worries. It’s as if a weight that’s been strapped to his chest has been lifted.

Swallowing, he says, “Thank you. That’s oddly perceptive.”

A small smile appears on Tim’s face. “I like to say that I’m an expert on most things Jason after all these years of dating.”

“Most things?” Jason asks, amused.

“All things,” Tim amends. “But I’d have to fight Roy for that right.”

Jason snorts, and they fall into a comfortable silence. As Jason wraps the dressing around Tim’s knuckles, he makes sure to rub thumb across Tim’s hand more than he needs to.

The sudden urge to press his lips against Tim’s hands pricks at him. He doesn’t act on it.

Tim has lost everyone once before, Jason recalls. He is the one everyone leaves behind. It must hurt to spend time with Jason like this—unbearable—when’s Jason here but his affections forgotten. At times, Jason catches Tim watching him with such longing, such craving, that Jason’s throat constricts.

Before, Jason watches Tim brush a thumb over his phone screen and wonders, _How can you love me that much?_

 _Maybe,_ he thinks, as he watches Tim close his eyes and press his bandaged hands to his lips, _it’s because I loved you the same._

Jason releases the iron fist he curled around his anger.

He channels all his effort into remembering.

 

* * *

 

Something in Jason wakes him in the middle of the night. Light filters through the bottom of his door and a single bright line in his pitch black room. Jason turns his back to it, concentrating on slipping into sleep. There’s the sound of running water as Tim turns the tap on, then it’s the only thing that Jason can concentrate on.

It seems like sleep isn’t going to come easily, so Jason stumbles out of bed and slips a singlet on. He finds Tim in his boxers and super boy shirt, his head in his hands as he rests against the sink.

Jason pads closer. “Are you…you okay there?”

Tim jolts, rubbing his face as he glances at Jason. He’s paler than when they bid each other goodnight, and the smile that Tim tries for is thin. It withers after he sees the unconvinced look on Jason’s face.

“Yeah. I’m okay,” Tim says. “I just had a nightmare.”

“Oh,” Jason says. He seems to say it a lot around Tim. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tim sighs. “No, not really.”

He would if Jason had his memories. In fact, if Jason had his memories, he would know what to do to comfort Tim. Tim deflects when he’s upset, and Jason so desperately wants to give back a piece of gentle patience and care that Tim’s given him these past few weeks.

“What do we usually do when one of us gets a nightmare?” Jason asks.

Tim doesn’t answer, and he avoids Jason’s gaze. A thought pops up in his head, and a surge of bone deep certainty follows. Tim’s hesitancy solders his resolve.

“We cuddle, don’t we?” Jason asks.

Jason doesn’t have to worry about Tim being pale anymore. Tim turns red.

“We do—did,” he corrects. “You don’t have to—if you don’t want to—”

“You don’t want to?”

Tim squares his shoulder. “Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It won’t,” Jason says. “Okay, maybe a little bit. But if that’s what we usually do, then it’s what we should do. I want to help you.”

It’s the absolutely sincerity that strips Tim off of his armour. “I guess," Tim says. "J’onn did say that routine helps.”

“Great,” Jason says, turning to walk into his room—their room, leaving Tim, holding his pillow, to follow and turn the lights off after him.

Steamroll through all of Tim’s defences, and his own, that way, his nerves won’t crawl out of his skin. He ignores how the room shrinks when Tim closes the door, and pats the bed beside him.

“So,” Jason says. “How do we do this? Am I little spoon or big spoon?” He smirks. “Top or bottom?”

Tim cracks a smile. “Hush you,” he says. “I’m tired. You choose. I can work with anything.”

Jason flops on this back, arms wide open, ready and willing for pillow duties. Tim shuffles closer, and the bed dips. The sharp, fresh smell of Tim’s shampoo floods his senses, and a tightness in his lower back loosens. Arms surround his waist. and Jason can feel a weight pressing down on his chest, before Tim’s body cover most of Jason’s left side like a warm blanket.

It’s automatic—a gut reaction—one of Jason’s arms comes to lie on Tim’s back, his fingers tracing the nubs and dips of his spine. The other tangles itself into Tim’s hair, and Tim’s breath hitches, before shuddering into a sigh. Jason can feel tension drain out of Tim as each second passes, and Tim burrows closer to him.

Jason hums. “Top, then?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, voice rough and quiet. “You call me a starfish because I like to sprawl. Not my fault that you’re warm and my feet get cold at night.”

Their breathing lengthens and evens out. Surrounded by the darkness, and by Tim, Jason can’t help but feel like this is where he’s meant to be.

Jason wants to remember. He wants to remember so bad. He feels hollow without his memories, empty and incomplete. Like a sharp, broken, porcelain vase with a bleak cavity inside. A parody of something whole. An aching, empty shell of who Jason Todd is supposed to be.

Tim lies with his head on the left side of Jason’s torso. He lies with his ear on top of Jason’s heart. Can he hear how badly Jason wants to remember?

Can Tim hear how badly Jason’s heart wishes to remember _him_?

 _Tomorrow,_ Jason decides.

Tomorrow, Jason will approach J’onn, and they will start training to unlock his memories.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, the title only applies to Jason in his amnesiac state. In my head, Jason gets his memories back and they live happily ever after hohOHO.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you think of it in the comments.
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](http://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com)


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